Excerpt from Seeking Fortune Elsewhere by Sindya Bhanoo, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

For Mr. Swaminathan's kariyam, I wear a light orange Mysore silk sari. Subdued and traditional is best, based on what I know about Renuka. Still, I made sure to go for something colorful. It is a celebration, after all. The kariyam marks the fourteenth day after Mr. Swaminathan's death, the official end of the mourning period. Though the mourning never really stops. Not for a spouse. I finished knitting the sweater for Renuka, but I do not take it with me. What use will it be to her in Chennai, a city where the sun is glaring even on the coldest day of the year?

Mr. Swaminathan's kariyam is an efficient, in-and-out kind of affair, held not in the Swaminathan flat but in the Malliga Homes common lounge. Their flat is one of the more modest one-bedrooms, and would not have held the crowd. I arrive on time, but the priest has already finished the puja.

"Oh, we finished early," Renuka's daughter says breezily. "No need to make everyone sit through it. We wanted everyone to just enjoy food with us." She is a pretty woman in her thirties, with the same light green eyes as her mother. She is wearing an emerald choker around her neck and a peacock-blue silk sari that she keeps adjusting at the pallu. Children these days don't know how to wear Indian clothes well, I have noticed. Too much time spent in slacks and skirts.

"I heard you are moving back," I say.

"We are," she says.

I do not ask her questions. She has many people to visit with, and no idea who I am. I wash my hands and take a seat in the eating area, in front of an empty banana leaf, right next to Mrs. Sharma.

"Did you hear about the Bhatia scandal?" Mrs. Sharma asks me. "Didn't your husband work for them?"

"Yes. But I have not heard."

"Mrs. Bhatia is suing her own son, Brij, for two hundred crores. And her daughter, Cherry, for one hundred." She shakes her head. "Rich people. They have so much and they fight like this."

"I met her once," I say. "She seemed like a nice woman."

"Nice to everyone but her own," Mrs. Sharma says, her lips puckered in false sorrow.

Men holding stainless-steel buckets of food come by to serve us. I mix my sambar and rice together with my hands.

Simple food, but such a pleasure to eat something different than what the dining hall cooks prepare.

I speak with Renuka only once, on my way out. She is wearing a plain cotton sari. She has wiped off her bottu, taken off her earrings, bangles, and toe rings. She looks naked, and vulnerable. That is what happens. You wear these things for so many years, they become your permanent clothing.

"I am so sorry," I say.

"Thank you for coming," she says, a phrase she must have said many times already.

For the first time, I notice how many wrinkles she has on her face. All over, even across the bridge of her nose. Nevertheless, her eyes are as striking as ever, penetrating and thoughtful.

"He asked for you at the end," I say.

"I am glad you were there," she says softly.


A few days after Mr. Swaminathan's kariyam, I go Veg for dinner. They are serving dry, salted herring on the Non-Veg side. I simply cannot tolerate the smell these days, though I once loved it. I sit alone at a table for four in the back of the hall. I survey the room, all of us old people eating, and the listless waiters, wearing their starched white uniforms that grow less white by the day, moving from table to table.

The old should be with the young, the young with the old. That was how it was for generations: babies sleeping in the armpits of their grandmothers, children sitting atop the shoulders of their grandfathers. Everyone in the same crowded home.

Nobody comes to sit with me today and I am glad for it. I might say something morose and develop a bad reputation. I finish my chapati and beans kottu, nicely sprinkled with freshly grated coconut, as quickly as possible, and rinse my hands at the tap.

From Seeking Fortune Elsewhere by Sindya Bhanoo. Used with permission of Catapult. Copyright © 2022 by Sindya Bhanoo.

This story was originally published in Granta magazine.